Marital Bliss 3: Coffee
by Luna Stop Swearing
Summary: Coffee. Whoever thought that such a simple thing as coffee could cause a fight between brother and sister? Please review!


Coffee  
  
By Mandelarae  
  
Disclaimer: If I owned Gundam Wing, I'd be filthy, stinking rich. But I don't, so that's saying something.  
  
Golden streaks of sunshine gleamed through the open window over the sink, letting in a kaleidoscope of color into the tiny, warm, squarish, cardboard- like structure they called a home. The soft, breezy air carried an array of gossip by the neighbor's wives, who had nothing better to do on an extraordinary spring morning. Birds chirped gaily as they enjoyed their catch of worms. The delicious scent of newly cut grass was in the air, as were the ever-present spring blooms.  
  
She stood by the sink, with her mug filled to the brim with caffeine potent enough to wake up the dead (if they drank it, I mean). The girl had let her guard down hours ago, and was enjoying the landscape, thinking that it looked like a magnificent watercolor painting, while she cradled the vessel that carried the hot, murky-brown liquid in the palm of her hand.  
  
One long sip jabbed all her brain cells.  
  
The coffee pot was still sitting on the hot plate of the coffee maker…one of her own creations. It murmured bubbles and choked out steam that twisted and entwined in a long, serpentine dance, straight up to the ceiling and disappeared, combining with the other gases that engulfed the atmosphere.  
  
The sight fascinated her as she took another sip.  
  
"Is that from Starbucks?" he asked warily, pointing at the Plexiglas pot perched atop the coffee maker.  
  
She noticed that he was wearing nothing but a light, tan-colored shirt and boxer shorts. He was barefoot, too.  
  
"No," she answered briskly, still staring at him from the rim of her goldfish-shaped mug. "I didn't see you come in."  
  
"I can avoid being seen if I want to," he shrugged as he reached over and picked out the tulip mug. He had always adored using that cup. And she knew this, and since she normally woke up earlier than he did to work out, she always reserved that mug for him.  
  
He held it up in the sunlight, the bright, ultraviolet rays bouncing off the ceramic object that he treasured, and reflecting the light on the ceiling.  
  
"Why does that mug mean so much to you?" she wanted to know.  
  
"It just does, alright?" he said gruffly, walking over to the coffee pot to pour himself a mug of the sinfully rich caffeinal offering.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Why should you be?'  
  
"I don't know," she stammered. "It's just that-"  
  
He interrupted her. The thing that ticked him off the most was rambling. Say what you had to say. Stop when you need to. Say all that was NECESSARY. That was his life.  
  
"What's for breakfast?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I mean, are we just going to have coffee or is there some accompaniment to it?"  
  
"I…didn't make anything else," she blushed.  
  
He raised an eyebrow.  
  
"I'm sorry…again."  
  
"We'll have to make do," he said, propping up a chair and sitting down.  
  
"Make do?"  
  
"Sit down."  
  
"But-"  
  
"Don't make me repeat myself."  
  
She sat down obediently, and sat upright, stiff as a board.  
  
Both sipped their coffee in silence.  
  
"Where's the paper?"  
  
She wordlessly handed him the front page.  
  
"Screw headlines. Give me the funnies."  
  
Now it was her turn to raise an eyebrow.  
  
"You? You read the comics?"  
  
"Why? What's wrong with that? Aren't I entitled to some humor now and then?"  
  
"No…it's just-"  
  
"Please don't ramble. I hate it."  
  
"Okay."  
  
He reached for the comics page and began to read.  
  
She watched him carefully, scrutinizing every emotion, watching for every trace of a smile, a giggle, a laugh, something to induce laughter.  
  
He furrowed his brow, refusing to break eye contact with the newspaper. He was in deep thought, evidently.  
  
"How can someone read the funnies SERIOUSLY?" she thought to herself, forcing herself to take another swallow of her drink, which was getting cold.  
  
After a while, neither had said a word.  
  
He was glad for the silence.  
  
She felt the need to speak.  
  
And she felt that she needed to speak so badly…like a volcano needs to explode….and…  
  
"Cathy?"  
  
"What is it, Trowa?" she asked, in a tone more similar to a yell than a polite inquisition.  
  
"Jesus, what's gotten into you? I was just going to ask you to pass the sugar."  
  
A container filled with tiny little granulated crystals was handed to him. Shoved, rather.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
And she stormed out of the room.  
  
"What? What did I do?"  
  
The kitchen door slammed firmly behind Catherine Bloom's back.  
  
He shrugged and gazed at the coffee pot. It was bare of anything except a few drops of coffee.  
  
Trowa sighed and peered into her cup.  
  
A half-full up of coffee was sitting there, waiting for someone to gulp it down.  
  
"Damn good coffee," he exhaled after chugging the entire mug down without a second thought.  
  
As he put the soiled cups into the sink and refolded the newspaper, he told himself, "I must ask Catherine if it's that time of the month again."  
  
Owari.  
  
A/N: Like? Hate? Comments? Fic challenges? Flames? Review? Yes? No? Please? 


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